


REWRITE.

by TimDrakeBF



Category: General fiction - Fandom
Genre: Comedy, Drama, Fiction, Gay Male Character, M/M, Multi, Mystery, People Gon Die, bi racial characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 10:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19060543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimDrakeBF/pseuds/TimDrakeBF
Summary: Blacklisted from NYC's Broadcast Journalism industry by his own mentor,Vincent Blackwell is forced back to his hometown of Bright Bay,a place he tried escaping and erasing from his life for years.As tragic as it feels for Vincent to be back, it turns out, Bright Bay isn't quite the city Vincent left behind so long ago.New flames, new scandals and familiar faces all spark the challenge of Vincent reinventing in a place he never once felt like himself to begin with.And in the midst of it all, that Reporter's Itch that he can't ever seem to truly satisfy is ignited when a local celebrity's stalker goes from just creepy to killer.





	1. Back to Bright Bay

Vincent couldn't stay off Instagram.

He'd open it, roll his eyes to the way back of his head, refresh, scoff so hard he'd nearly regurgitate, then close the app... only to get restless and open the app again before his screen had even gone into lock mode.

His notifications were dryer than his Uber driver's elbows and all the recent posts he came across were from people he didn't want to see having a fabulous time without him there. And then there were people he genuinely couldn't stomach and had only ever followed out of sheer opportuneness, because of business obligations, or just to stay in the vast, ever-changing loop that wrapped and tangled around his life and job.

Well, former life. Former job.

Being one of New York's Best Broadcast Journalists (somewhat self-proclaimed) wasn't the kind of job that you could clock out or disconnect from. Vincent Blackwell had to stay in the know. The media and the news may have been two different things, but they were both fast. One thing you couldn't afford to be in Vincent's line of work was late.

His hands had to stay dipped in several different organizations, avenues and industries. His connections had to be both low profile and blatantly obvious. He could blink, and suddenly his enemies were allies depending on which story was about to break. None of it was always easy, but it was fulfilling. Something Vincent prioritized. As shallow as he could be, fulfillment was something he cherished and didn't ever want compromised. It was the driving force that drove him out of Bright Bay back when he was twenty.

That very conviction paired with him being sensational at his job went hand-in-hand with what had made Vincent such a critical factor to the Silver Save Network. It's what made him the ideal prodigy to Benjamin Perry. His mentor. His boss. Friend.

Former mentor. Former boss.

That pill wasn't getting any smaller or easier to swallow.

You'd think being maliciously terminated by your mentor, back-stabbed by your friends and peers and blacklisted from the industry you'd always dreamed of working within would be enough to send someone packing for good. Not in Vincent's case. A huge part of him still clung to the wrong idea that somehow this whole scandal was going to sort itself out and spit him right back in NYC with his luxury condo, 2019 Rogue, personal assistant, and corner office at Silver Save just how he'd left it. Complete with his little jar of peanut M&M's on the desk. Next to his autographed and framed photo of Rihanna.

Reluctantly, he picked his phone from the crease of his thighs and opened the Instagram app again. Maybe this time he'd see someone having a shit day. Someone who'd just got dumped or robbed or had a giant zit on their face. Anything to make him feel like someone on the planet was doing maybe just slightly worse than him now.

Sharon, his personal trainer was at another upscale beach house, partying with some of her richest clients.

Dexter, his side hoe was at some extravagant charity event with a wrinkled black man that Vincent used as a source more than a few times. Rich snitches were the best, they never had anything to fear or lose. And they'd usually take you out for dinner to spill all the tea. Then act shocked when the story hit TV screens. But they'd be right back in Vincent's DM's offering even more tidbits that would knock their competitors off public pedestals. As lascivious as things would get, still, Vincent couldn't get enough. The adrenaline Vincent felt when pasting together some of the biggest and tiniest pieces to his news stories...it was even hard for him to articulate sometimes.

It didn't stop there. There was the satisfaction and notoriety that he stacked right next to his checks. The creative control that came rolling in after every successful, highly televised fragment of news he was able to turn into an entire portrait. It was his dream job. It had eventually turned to a living nightmare, however.

Joey, Vincent's neighbor with daddy issues was out and about in Manhattan with his new boyfriend, who Vincent had always wanted to dig deeper into. He knew the boy's were both frequenting a call-boy service and boy, oh, boy had Vincent wanted to start secretly working on an angle for that story before relocating back to Bright Bay.

Relocating. That was a nice way of lying about it. Sounded a lot cleaner than the real story.

Well, the real fake story.

The one that was used to blacklist Vincent from the broadcasting industry forever. The story that'd been used to torch his reputation. It wasn't cute, nor was it something that Vincent could really explain or expect someone outside that world to comprehend the weight off.

A mole. A snitch. A rat. A double agent.

Once you were labeled anything of the sort in Vincent's line of work, you weren't worth anything to anyone anymore. And you definitely weren't working.

And ironically, it takes nothing more than a well-crafted lie to shift the thinking of some of the smartest people within an industry that's supposed to be based on facts, truths and hard evidence.

But then again, the news and the media are two very different things. Both boiling down to nothing but gossip at the end of the night.

Vincent's former roommate (and best friend) Ashton Rae posted a new picture.

"This bitch..." Vincent stopped himself from 'liking' the pic. It was a habit to like everything Ashton posted. They'd once been so close that one of them wouldn't even post a picture before getting the other's approval on everything from the timing to the caption.

Now, Vincent didn't even want Ashton to know he existed. Vincent didn't know how to be friends with anyone he wasn't doing better than. And now that Ashton had landed his dream job in fashion and moved into a nicer, bigger condo on a slightly posher side of town with his Instagram famous bodybuilder boyfriend...he fell into that category for Vincent.

But he wasn't going to unfollow Ashton. Or Dexter or Sharon. Nor was he going to unfollow any of the other people he'd followed just for the connections. That would be classified as letting go and moving on, something Vincent knowingly wasn't capable of doing yet.

The car swerved and the driver just chuckled about it. "Whoa, almost hit a dead cat."

"Kinda wish I was the cat." Vincent groaned, leaning his head on the window. His Gucci shades fell from his forehead to the bridge of his nose.

"Ah, don't be glum, this town isn't so bad." The driver for whatever reason felt like Vincent had opened the floor for conversation. "I drive here a lot."

"I used to live here. I know it sucks; you don't have to hype it up..." Vincent told him dryly. "Spent seventeen years of my life trying to find a way outta here."

"Well, you made it out, right? You said you're coming from New York, so at least you escaped."

"Yeah, but the point is not to come back." Vincent said, a depressed drag to his words. "You don't spend all that time trying to run from something, just to come back four years later."

"So, I take it you're not here for business...or pleasure?" The driver's voice was muffled by the fourth glazed donut hole he'd stuffed down his mouth. Vincent watched the man rub his fingers together to get rid of the crumbs.

"My business is to regroup and get the hell out of here as fast as possible."

"When I picked you up, you said you were a celebrity. What movies you been in?"

"Not all famous people act."

"But they're all actors." The driver felt proud to say. "They're all fake, am I right?"

"Everyone is fake. So that's not saying much." Vincent rolled his eyes. He hated talking to people who felt like they'd figured out a whole world they weren't even part of. "I'm a reporter."

"Eh, no wonder I didn't recognize you."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing..." The driver shut himself up, looking determined not to get a one-star rating from Vincent.

"There's just...nothing here for me." Vincent said, his heart breaking the deeper they drove into the city.

He was starting to recognize places from his childhood. The Twin Park Elementary school where he'd met his close friend, Damien Augustine.

The City Mall where he'd applied for literally every job possible. Even the ones not possible. How was he supposed to know there was no such thing as an Elevator Attendant?

There was the arcade where his cousin, Ciara's first boyfriend got his ass beat in her honor. Even the neighborhood where Vincent's first family home was. A small, modest area with one-story homes so close to each other they were practically hugging. Compact, yellow lawns with grass so crusty it would scrape your little knees worse than the pavement. Vincent recalled the times back then he'd stepped outside to check the mail or get groceries from the car, only to get teased by the neighborhood kids (hoodlums). They'd called him a hermit or a ghost because he played with them...or said hi...or looked in their general direction. Had he ever breathed their way? It was unlikely.

It wasn't because Vincent was odd or socially awkward, he just never been the type that was concerned with trying to fit in. Those kids were dirty and played barefoot in the middle of the street with sticks. They drank out of water hoses. Vincent wasn't interested.

They zoomed past the middle school where Ciara and Damien introduced Vincent to Troyce Todd, someone who'd become part of their inner circle for years to come. Someone Vincent would always feel just kind of unsure about. It never went away completely, just faded some.

"Ah, don't say that, kiddo." The driver said. "There's something for everyone, everywhere."

"I'm twenty-four." Vincent told him. "And that's literally just not true."

Once he'd turned sixteen, Vincent was fiercely dedicated to find a way out of Bright Bay. He wanted to go somewhere he felt challenged, or at least like he was the same as anyone around him. Bi-racial. Gay. Nonathletic. Stylish. Someone who took his morning skin routine seriously. There wasn't even anyone who could quote Wendy Williams with him. He wanted to be somewhere he'd feel compelled to fit in.

Bright Bay wasn't that. It was a complacent city with complacent people and less flavor than the unseasoned chicken his very white mother brought to every school potluck for Ciara and Vincent. And Ciara was the fully black one so Vincent knew her ass was embarrassed. Vincent's very much negro father would act like it was delicious though, but Vincent knew there was a secret stash of seasoning in his dad's toolbox. It was a secret between the two of them. Vincent wondered if his mother had ever found the stash...he didn't keep in touch with them enough to know for sure.

He looked at his phone for the ETA to his Ciara's apartment building. He'd get there at 4:21PM. 

"Thinking of the devil..." Vincent opened the text from Ciara the second it came in. "This bitch..." He muttered.

Ciara's text was brief. She was back in town, but not home yet. She had 'shit to do'.

I won't be there when you get in, im at work saving the day. Black girl magic or whatever. A modern day Captain Marvel.

She's white.

Don't hate on me like that

How do I get into the apartment? I won't wait outside; people know my face....

They know your face because you grew up here, not because they watch the New York news, stupid

So how do I get in?

The lobby is free....

Didn't I just say I won't want to be recognized?

Nobody is gonna know your ass. I barely know your ass. And I left a key with Kintaro at the front desk.

Is that a sushi bar?

Don't bring that problematic shit into my home, Vinny. Kintaro is good people.

Okokok

apartment 414

Oooo, you're on the top floor?

I'm a classy bitch. I'm like the Black Scarlet Witch.

When are you getting here? I wanna drink and start my depression cycle as soon as possible

An hour maybe two? Make yourself at home. Don't snoop around my place, something might poke ya eye out

I'm a reporter, it's my job to snoop lol

Job???

Fuck you.

See u soon bby

BYE

He turned the phone's screen off and sighed, seeing the building come into view. There were a half circle of luxe palm trees looming over the apartment's entrance. It instantly gave everything a serene, but cheesy resort vibe.

He'd only been to Ciara's apartment one other time since he'd left for New York less than eight months after High School. It was when Vincent's mother, Linda had fallen down the stairs at their current home and got banged up badly. He'd only come to spend those two days with his mother in the hospital, but Ciara hadn't let him fly back without seeing her place and having street tacos with her boyfriend at the time. Orlando?? Or was it Sean? No, Sean was the one with the dreads. A blemish on Ciara's dating history for sure.

"We're here." Vincent said, squinting to see if there were any side entrances for people like himself.

"Shadow Side." The driver said the building's name like it was something foreign on a restaurant menu. Like he was unsure of the origin or any of the ingredients listed along with it. "How much for rent?"

It was a luxury apartment building, but still, nothing compared to the condo Vincent had been yanked out of in New York the very same day he'd found out his position at the network was terminated. A blessed day indeed. If God was real, she was certainly on lunch break that entire day.

"Can you drop me off in the back? I can't be seen by the GP." Vincent said.

The car pulled into the building's main entrance, facing the office that took up a large chunk of the entrance. Off to the far left and right were sapphire colored double gates for vehicles to come and go. And beside those, there were side gates for residents on foot. You needed an access code to go through them. Vincent vividly remembered getting locked out last time he was there and having to call Ciara 28 times before she woke up from her 4pm nap and text him the code.

"GP?"

"Right." Vincent said.

The driver took a long pause, came to a complete stop and undid his own seat belt.

"I don't see any..." The driver shrugged and got out, opening the door for Vincent with one big swing.

"Are you on crack?" Vincent slammed the door shut. "I said I don't want the GP to see me." He pressed the automatic button on the window, letting it roll down smoothly.

"And I said, I don't see any Gay People around." The driver said, totally clueless.

"General Public. GP means the general public." Vincent snapped, flinging himself all the way down in the seat when a couple of joggers came from the building's right-side gate. "I'm a celebrity, that's the first thing I told you when you picked me up."

"I just assume most people that tell me that are bullshitting. Everyone says they're a celeb these days. Most of em are those YouTube folks."

"Now I know... you did not just compare me to a youtuber?" Vincent nearly puked the word out. "You think I spend the year posting story time videos about how my Chipotle cashier tried poisoning me and vacationing at Coachella with Jeffree Star's racist ass?"

"Sounds close."

"I report the actual news! Do you remember the Case of Caldwin V Keating?" Vincent's lips were curling up from the stench of uncultured.

"Huh?"

"I covered that case from start to finish!"

"Ok."

"The Hampton Hotel Pool Murder/Suicide?"

"Yup."

"Also me!"

"Ok."

"Fordham University's mysteriously vanishing test scores?" Vincent was ticking the stories off his fingers like ex-boyfriends. "That was MY story to break. Hell, I found the test scores."

"Where were they?" The driver leaned close in for the secret.

"Google it." Vincent told him blatantly. "What do I look like, an encyclopedia?"

"Those all sound great, kiddo."

"I'm twenty-three!" Vincent shouted, scooting even lower when a trio of cars pulled into the entrance one after another. "I've been followed, I knew it."

"You said twenty-four earlier." The driver pointed out, his finger wagging at Vincent. "You're a jokester."

"My reputation is no joke. The paparazzi that are about to hop out those cars....also no joke. I hope you're prepared to be harassed for a statement."

"You mean those cars?" He pointed to the big Italian family that had split themselves between the three cars. They all got out, eagerly hugging and kissing each other hello.

"Hmm." Vincent said. "Maybe they took a longer route."

"The paps?"

"I've got time to run inside without being seen." Vincent bit his bottom lip, trying to count how many steps he'd have to take from the car to the lobby. He considered a cartwheel. Nothing too flashy, just something to get him there quicker. He ran a floating hand over his face, switching to a cool poker face.

"Tons of time." The driver said, eyebrow raised.

"I still think you should pull around back, someone could be watching me from across the street."

"There's only a nail shop and Pizza Hut across the street." The driver said. "You think the delivery guy is stalking you?"

"I'm not taking that chance." Vincent warned. "I don't want to risk anyone knowing I live here. I'll be followed everyday before some disgruntled victim of one of my monumental news stories decides to gun me down like Gianni Versace."

"The man from Gucci?"

"The man...from Gucci..." Vincent repeated, utterly let down. "Just take me around back." He massaged at his forehead, then reached for the window control, rudely letting the window roll up on the man's finger.

"Alright buddy." The driver swung the door open again, exposing Vincent. "Ya gotta go, I got another scheduled ride after you, there's money to be made."

"I'll pay double what your next ride is."

"Somehow that doesn't sound appealing to me."

"Do you really not care about this big fat one-star rating I'm about to drop on your driving career. Your legacy behind the wheel? On the road. In this community?"

"I'm only driving to save up enough money to pay back my lil sister. I burned her kitchen down."

"And you'll be burning my safety down if you drop me off here." Vincent said. He placed his hands neatly in his lap and sat quietly, facing the passenger seat. Waiting.

"I'm okay with that."

Vincent gasped; mouth hanging wide open, all insulted.

"Do you talk to all your clients like this? I mean, I could ruin the Uber brand with one news story about this experience, you know that, right?" Vincent threatened, his right-hand dripping in sass and classism as it went in and out of the man's personal space.

"Do you talk to all your drivers like this? And you stopped being my client seven minutes ago when I ended the ride, so get your skinny ass out. You're just an intruder in my car at this point."

"Intruder?"

"There's a McDonald's across the street calling my name." The driver stood on his toes, taking a long peak over the palms to grin at the fast food logo in the distance.

"Hopefully it's the salad menu specifically." Vincent said, knowing he had just sealed his own fate. Like many times before, his smart mouth had screwed up any chance of mercy that had presented itself to him in the form of another person's patience.

Vincent could practically see the last pinch of tolerance dissolve off his driver's face and flit away into the still air. "Hang on..." Vincent raised his hands in surrender.

"Oh hell no!" The driver stretched into the car, his grasp on Vincent's legs feeling desperate. "I'm done with you, kid!"

"HELP! HELP! ASSAULT! SEXUAL ASSAULT!"

"Don't flatter yourself, kid, I just want you out my goddamn car." Most of the man's body had gone into the backseat as he struggled to get hold of Vincent and jerk him off the leather seats. Vincent slapped and kicked, literally terrified of being left alone back in Bright Bay.

"Someone help me! My driver is trying to racially profile me and assault me and commit a hate crime!"

"LOOK AROUND!" The driver stopped, arms wide spread to the entire entrance. "There's nobody watching you! This is actually the perfect time for you to go." He panted.

"That's what they want you to think. I've hid in plenty enough shrubs to know that there's at least six cameramen waiting to sneak attack me."

"You're crazy." The driver gave Vincent one final, grizzly tug and just like that, the boy was on his ass, outside the car.

Vincent got to his feet. "I know the mayor, he won't be happy about this." Vincent lied, fixing his crooked shades.

"Yeah, yeah..." The driver rolled all of Vincent's luggage over to him, a pleased but bothered expression on his brittle lips. "Can't say it's been a pleasant ride." The slam of the driver door and the ignition jolting to life again felt spiteful on every level.

"At least give me my cloud macchiato back!" Vincent yelled at the driver window. It didn't phase the driver, he pulled away smoothly blending into the heavy traffic flow just outside the apartment's entrance way

GET HERE QUICK! IM NAKED AND AFRAID

Vincent sent the text to Ciara, his fingers practically lighting the keypad on fire as they swiped about. He used way too many emojis to be taken seriously.

He grabbed the handle of his two cases in either palm and dashed to the lobby entrance of Shadow Side.

He'd only gotten a few steps ahead when automatic, tinted glass doors slid apart, revealing three young women in jogging gear. One of the women was staring at Vincent a little too hard, like he owed her money. Or like she knew his face and was about to ask for an autograph. Or worse, she'd just start live streaming on Instagram Live.

"Nice blazer." The woman said, before falling into pace with her speedy friends. Vincent watched her jog away, still thinking she'd turn around with one of those concert type cameras and get a shot of him.

"Headed in?" The shirtless guy asked, standing in the center of the double doors so they'd just keep reopening each time they were about to slide to close again.

His pale blue running shorts stopped just before his knees. The peek-a-boo of tight, Calvin Klein underwear had Vincent's brow raised just above the rim of his shades.

"Thank you." Vincent got closer, taking sharper, faster looks at the boy's body. A lean and sweaty torso that reminded Vincent of one of those high school seniors who only peaked because they were pressured into four years of weight training and one or two other athletic related clubs.

The kind of guys who didn't really go to gym as often as they got away with saying they did. He was in shape for sure though, and his soft, russet brown curls were just as bouncy as the smile on his face.

"Moving in?" The boy asked, a bead of sweat rolling from his forehead all the way down to his left nipple as he jerked his chin at Vincent's things.

"Not exactly." Vincent outright lied again.

The youthfully handsome, ethnic-ish passing white boy walking inside with him wasn't really Vincent's type, although he could admit without hesitation that he was cute. His smile was almost kid-like, with a sneaky looking sharpness to his teeth and baby brown eyes that contrasted that mischievous factor. That was it! Vincent didn't really fall for cute, young looking guys often. Today wasn't going to be a start.

The boy had expensive, designer running shoes on. Vincent knew right away. Not only because he owned a pair, but because when he'd worked for Silver Save Network, he'd pitched a Luxury Lifestyle Segment for Monday mornings, which had been picked up by Benjamin Perry and eventually spearheaded by his closest friend there, Ayanna Finely.

Ayanna taking the lead was bittersweet, sure, but being the 'face' of the segment wasn't what satisfied Vincent. It was the credit and the recognition. It all came down to him being able to say one more successful thing at the Network was because of him. Getting the validation from his equals...and most importantly, Benjamin.

Ayanna lead the segment impeccably anyway....but now that Vincent knew she was a lying two-faced skanky whore...he felt the segment had surpassed her capabilities. Amongst other things.

The boy entering with Vincent stood about 5'11, with a sweaty looking tank top tucked into the back pocket of his shorts and a couple tattoos that stood out without being obnoxious. There was one on his right wrist that Vincent wasn't going to try to decipher, it looked mirrored or just badly drawn. There was another tatt prodding from the backside. Right above the boy's cheeks. Vincent wouldn't even have noticed it if he hadn't been purposely walking slowly so that he could fall behind and scan the room for media plants.

"LV luggage. Dope." The white boy said, using the tucked t shirt to wipe some of the sweat off his chest.

The lobby was tall, wide and grand, but still not near the level that Vincent had become accustomed too. The color story was a mix of muted beige and regal gold. There was a café style sitting area that took up most of the lobby. Booths, tabletops and love seats were scattered about. But nobody sat at any of them.

The only people in the lobby were Vincent, the sweaty shirtless white boy with the cute nipples and a petite looking Japanese man behind one of the two front desks.

"I know you!" Kintaro, the receptionist waved wildly, his smile joyous. Vincent halted, his left foot literally refusing to lift off the ground for another step.

"Oh my god..." Vincent breathed. "He works for TMZ..."

"Kintaro, man, that trail you told me about was wicked!" The shirtless boy jogged up to the desk, nearly shoving his scratched-up elbow into Kintaro's face.

"Whoa! You fell!?" Kintaro was an animated, cutely dressed older man with heavily styled dark hair. Vincent wasn't sure if he was having an identity crisis or an age crisis...but more than a few things about him just seemed off balance. Voice didn't match the face. Style didn't match the age.

"I fell, I tumbled, I did it all. There's a twig up my ass right now." The boy joked, turning to show Kintaro his backside. He gave it a pat. Vincent absolutely took the opportunity to watch the small, modest ass jiggle. A fun sized butt. Cool to play around with and touch, but nothing that would fill you up.

"Next time come running with me." The boy whined at Kintaro.

"Ahhh, Emmett, you run too early, I like night jog." Kintaro pouted.

"Sounds like another excuse, Kintaro. You were supposed to go biking with me on Sunday and flaked last minute. You never went to that paintball thing with me and Jeremy either."

"You broke your finger at that." Kintaro said.

"Two fingers. Not the important ones though." Emmett held up his middle and index finger, twirling them in Kintaro's face playfully. The older man giggled, swatting them away.

Vincent wasn't the least bit turned on by that kind of obvious, tasteless flirting. He wasn't seventeen and didn't have to sneak to have sex in the back of the family's van.

"But still, you know I'm always out there doing something, let me know when you're free." Emmett pulled away from the desk. "Jeremy and you would get along; he likes to whine about shit too." Emmett's smile was harmless, lessening the rude undertones to his comment.

"Jeremy and you are best friend; I don't want to be the third wheel." Kintaro shook his head, lips pursed.

"Excuses, excuses. Then just me and you. Some time at night since that's what you like."

"Maybe." Kintaro nodded finally.

Vincent was starting to dislike Emmett. He'd always been the type to make fast, definite conclusions about people, so he didn't feel bad about it. Emmett just seemed juvenile and more self-centered than most people probably caught on to. The type who felt they were doing you a favor by being nice to you?

"Oh yes like I was saying...I know you." Kintaro said happily, his entire open palm pointed at Vincent, who just waited to be exposed as the rejected, tarnished former Silver Save Network reporter who'd been shipped back to his dusty musty hometown over a lie.

A scandal. A plot gone wrong.

"Let's use our inside voices..." Vincent began, eyes darting around nervously again.

"Ciara's cousin!" Kintaro said, an eye smile stretching across his face.

"No way, you're Vincent?" Emmett asked, moving back from the desk to Vincent. "I've heard a lot about you, I'm a friend of Ciara's."

"Sorry to hear that." Vincent replied, hesitant to give Emmett his hand. He didn't bother gripping or shaking. "She said she'd left the key with you..." He looked in Kintaro's direction, the shades still concealing how peeved he was.

"Yes, yes, yes, let me find the key for Mr. New York." Kintaro snickered at his own joke, rummaging quite aggressively through everything on his desk. Vincent noticed a pack of cigarettes nearly fly off the side of the desktop.

"My name's Emmett Rollins, really good to meet you. Any cousin to Ciara is a friend of mine."

"Vincent." He made sure not to give his last name. One Google search and his entire recent life story would be the talk of the town. Or maybe not? It depended on how public Silver Save had gone with his termination. Vincent would have to remember to check into it.

"Likewise." He lied.

"New York? Dang, that's cool, I've been twice with my boss." Emmett said, finally putting his navy blue tank top on again. Vincent was glad. He hadn't been with anyone for more than few weeks and the longer he'd been staring at Emmett, the more Vincent was starting to become the white man's whore.

"I love it." Vincent said, ignoring the sweat beads and prominent veins that were in HD from whatever workout Emmett was coming from.

"Love getting mugged in the subway...it's exhilarating, right?" Emmett had a straight face, not even a hint of a laugh.

"To each his own." Vincent replied, unsure if he was supposed to chuckle at that one.

"You'll have to excuse me, I'm sort of an adrenaline junkie." He finally laughed. "How long are you staying with Ciara for? Are you here on business?"

Vincent really didn't understand what made total strangers go from just having stiff, polite conversation to being nosy as hell. Finding out Vincent was related to Ciara wasn't a pass to play another round of 21 Questions. Luckily, Vincent didn't have to answer. Kintaro stepped in between the two boys, another brighter smile on his face as he handed the key to Vincent.

"Room 414." Kintaro said.

"Got it. Thanks." Vincent dropped the key into his black blazer pocket.

"Want help with your bags?" Kintaro asked. "I can get Nico."

"The doorman." Emmett finished the thought. "No worries, Kintaro, I'll help him."

"Uhhh, I'm not as weak as my handshake, I got it." Vincent tried.

"Not a problem." Emmett said anyway, taking both suitcases. He rolled one and slung the other over his shoulder. "This way."

"Sure." Vincent made the sigh sound somewhat chipper as he tailed behind Emmett, still convinced both men were working for the media undercover. They'd corner him and ask him something crazy about Benjamin Perry, which Vincent would gladly answer. Vincent couldn't even remember the last person he'd hated as much as Benjamin Perry. Maybe the barista from Starbucks with the heavy contour.

Your idol turning out to be an actual monster who takes delight in clawing your life and future to bits...it wasn't possible to come back from that. But it was conflicting for Vincent. As much as he wanted his old life back, his old job and status...he didn't want anything to do with Benjamin unless it involved Vincent's hands around the man's neck. Not in the sexy way.

Vincent and Emmett got into the elevator after a young, snobbish looking couple stepped off, smelling like name brand everything. Again, Vincent noted the types of people who lived at Shadow Side. They definitely had some kind of taste and status, maybe some were actual high rollers, but Vincent wouldn't allow himself to be impressed.

Even with the way his bank account looked, and a fresh piping hot eviction slapped onto his name, he still felt better than everyone around him.

He'd always believed that even at their lowest point, people still had a responsibility to carry themselves like they were at their peak. Even if meant lying to yourself and stroking your own ego to maximum proportions. "Last time I checked Ciara was out of town? She back?" Emmett asked, looking down at Vincent. He was only an inch or so taller, but it felt like a huge difference in the elevator.

"Yeah, she's back." Vincent said plainly.

"Seattle. New York. Ya'll get around."

"I guess you could say that."

"Me too." Emmett said innocently enough. Away from Kintaro and with a shirt on, the guy was starting to seem tolerable.

They walked one behind the other once the elevator doors opened to the fourth floor. Vincent saw the butt cheek tattoo peeking out a couple more times as he followed Emmett. He wanted to stay far back enough that the curly haired boy wouldn't be able to hold much of a conversation with him.

"Honey, you're home." Emmett stopped just to the side of the door so that Vincent had enough space to unlock it.

"Again, thanks, I can take it from here." Vincent said, finally taking off his shades almost absentmindedly. He noticed Emmett's expression stayed the same. Friendly and patient. No starstruck or lovestruck firework in sight. He wasn't interested in Vincent, he was just a nice, good-looking flirty gay. At times it seemed all three couldn't exist within the same gay man at once, but Emmett was apparently one of the exceptions. Whatever weird vibe Vincent had picked up from Emmett back at the desk wasn't sticking now.

Vincent opened the door just a crack and clenched, praying Emmett wouldn't wreck the somewhat good impression by inviting himself in or making a joke about coming inside.

"Welp, hope you like it here at Shadow Side." Emmett said, distracted totally by whatever message had slid across his iPhone. "I'll see you around, I'm sure."

"Biking emergency?" Vincent asked, only feeling comfortable keeping the conversation going now that he could dash into the apartment and lock himself inside at any given second.

"Emergency, yes, but it don't involve bikes. My boss is back in town."

"Heh, yeah, I know the feeling." Vincent could relate.

It'd been a while since seeing a text or incoming call from work had been a thing for him, but it made him smile a bit anyway. It didn't last long, the nostalgia quickly turned sour as he remembered some of his final calls back and forth to Silver Save Network. The blocked calls. The anonymous numbers. The threats. Lies and pleas. More than before, Vincent wanted to get inside and bury his face in whatever wine presented itself first. Or some porn.

"She's back from Mexico, saying I should have been at the office hours ago." Emmett chuckled about it, his eyes lightening up to actual Christmas tree magnitudes. More than before, Vincent saw how harmless this boy was. He was standing there all giggly and giddy that his boss was back in town.

"I gotta go, she misses me apparently. Has lots of tea to spill."

"See ya, Emmett." Vincent smiled back as the boy darted back down the hall, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator. "I swear he just did a back flip down those stairs." Vincent let himself in, locking the door, then unlocking it and locking it again. After pulling on it twice, he was somewhat satisfied enough to roll his things to the center of the living room and kick off his shoes.

Ciara's place was surprisingly less tacky than Vincent has pictured it to be. The sitting furniture was black, placed atop a shiny, but rustically pale, emotional looking wood that felt like marble under Vincent's socks.

The kitchen island and several other pieces from the dining to the living area were white with grey accents. Even the large, shaggy grey rug under Ciara's coffee table looked like something Vincent would have seen at one of Benjamin's many homes. One of the ones he let the public lay eyes on.

He didn't know if Ciara had hired an interior designer or just developed some actual taste over the years. She'd come a long way from having Jonas Brother's posters all over her school binders and bedroom walls.

"Not too shabby." Vincent said, already helping himself to a bowl of wafers Ciara had on the center of her kitchen island. She'd always had a habitual sweet tooth. "Lemme find this wine." He poked around, totally ignoring her request for him to do the opposite. "I ain't snooping, I'm just parched." He'd found the wine, and even the glass to pour it into. The bottle opener too! But he wasn't finished snooping.

His curiosity had led him from the kitchen all the way to the hallway, where he made faces at some of the photos Ciara had chosen to hang up. Slinking out of his tailored, black velvet blazer, he continued to diss his own family and former friends in the photos.

"Ew." Vincent cringed at the picture of him and Ciara at SeaWorld for her fourteenth birthday. Neither one of them had wanted to go, but for whatever reason, Trish, Ciara's mother had purchased the tickets and sent them in the mail. Vincent complained the entire day about how the killer whales were obese and pushing a false image of body positivity on everyone.

Ciara just cried for most of the day, sad she had missed her friend, Ashley's Root Beer Float party two cities over. By the time Vincent tried to take a nap in the mock ice cave with wax polar bears, his parents had decided to call it a day.

Ciara had a photo of her mother, two of herself and her dad, Russell, and a couple with her bla-tino boyfriend, Adrian. He was hot. But a safe hot. The kind of hot where people are obviously aware of how good you look, but not tempted enough to try anything. Both pictures were recent looking, taken at musical festivals. Adrian made music. Not good music. But music. Vincent admired Ciara's dedication to Adrian's passion. She even had links to his EP's in her Instagram bio.

Eyes narrowed; Vincent took his time looking over the last photo. It was one of the last trips he'd taken with his parents and Ciara before he went off the college in NYC. They were at some resort in Palm Springs, all wearing revolting Hawaiian print shirts with pineapple drinks over to their lips.

Vincent vividly remembered sneaking off to give the bartender a hand-job while his family was at the mini golf course. He hadn't done it because he was a whore or because he hated his family, or even because he was acting out. At that time, nothing had excited him. Not even the hand-job.

Vincent had to pee. He untucked his skinny designer basic black tee. Although the apartment looked very different than his last visit, Vincent remembered exactly where the guest bathroom was.

Putting his wine glass on the small flower table beside Ciara's room door, he flashed down the hallway, eyes glued to the bathroom door.

Vincent had one foot already inside the dark bathroom when the light popped on above him. He figured it was automatic at first...but the naked, sculpted man in front of him killed that notion.

Vincent was speechless, his lips parting like he was expecting a kiss. His eyes did laps up and down the tall, modestly muscular, Butterfinger skinned man's nude body. His back was durable looking, but not too wide or buff. Beyoncé may have been on to something when she said, 'ride it like a surfboard'.

His dark hair was short, tapered expertly in the back. His legs were like a stallion, capable and manly looking, with a light, unoffensive amount of hair across them. His ass cheeks were like two halves of cantaloupe, bronzed and firm with a pleasing shake, sitting peacefully supple otherwise.

The man was drying his hair with a thick black towel, highlighting different muscles groups all over as he moved from his hair to his chest and then down to his front.

Vincent could hear the sound of it smacking against the man's inner thigh. He almost moaned at the sound. The way the man's ass tensed and loosened as he dried himself off, almost like it was speaking in sign language. Asking to be kissed, grabbed and licked. Hugged.

With one big step, the man turned, facing Vincent. He ran the towel over his hair and face some more, blocking their views of one another. He reached out to grab the door handle, accidentally grasping at the front of Vincent's pants instead.

Vincent had a thing for nipples.

It was especially hard for him to take his eyes off the skin dots long enough for him to notice the man was finally staring at him. Even then, Vincent still took an extra three seconds to look down at the man's dick, which was quickly hidden with the same black towel. Dammit. Vincent hadn't been quick enough to get a good mental snapshot.

WAIT. DAMMIT.

"Damien!?"

"Vincent?!"

Vincent was already mid gasp when Damien rushed at him, scooping him up in a bear hug and charging out the bathroom door like a touchdown was in sight. Vincent's lungs felt ready to collapse. Party because he had the air knocked out of him and partly because he was still holding in the deepest, biggest, longest moan. Fuck, he was turned on. But equally shook.

Damien threw Vincent down on the coach, a big goofy looking grin on both their faces. Vincent's was purely ecstasy.

"BUDDY!" Damien's arms went way up in the air, his pecs tightening and bouncing simultaneously. The towel was on the floor beside the couch, leaving Damien naked as the truth once again.

"Daddy..." Vincent clasped a hand over his mouth.


	2. Man's Best Friend

Damien poured the two glasses of red wine, making sure both had equal amounts. Holding both glasses up to each other, he squinted, waiting till the liquid settled to he could get an accurate feel for it.  
He hated wine, but it was Vincent’s suggestion and he didn’t want to be tough. He didn’t even like to drink in the middle of the day. Wasn’t a fan of wine either…especially red. But he hadn’t seen Vincent in so long, why be picky? Damien smiled, watching Vincent swish the wine around in his glass.  
“Sorry again about before.” Damien said, once Vincent’s glass was to his lip. “About my butt and…” He used one index finger to feebly point down at his package. He was on the opposite side of the kitchen bar top, so Vincent couldn’t see the package, even though he wanted to. Even after Damien had power tossed Vincent on top of the couch, nearly straddling him like a mechanical gay bull, Vincent still hadn’t gotten a chance to see the whole thing…his imagination was doing laps now.  
“Stop.” Vincent nearly choked on a laugh. Half of the encounter was becoming hilarious to him, but the other half was still making him a little hard under Ciara’s kitchen bar. Damien talking about it every few moments wasn’t helping.  
“Don’t mention it. Or do. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Personally, I didn’t mind.”  
“Oh?” Damien’s long, toned arms were stretched apart, gripping the sides of Ciara’s bar. Through his otherwise thin grey t-shirt, Vincent could see a tattoo on the right shoulder. For whatever reason, he hadn’t noticed it when Damien was dripping wet, naked and warm with shower steam. From what Vincent could see, it was a hawk…or…a money sign…a roller blade? Could have been anything.  
Damien raised a brow at Vincent’s tone. Was he being flirty? Was there any other way to be after seeing someone butt naked fresh out the hot shower? Especially when you’re gay. His cheeks flushed as much as they could for his light skin, he could literally feel the swirls of heat centering in the middle of each one.  
“Not like that.” Vincent raised a hand, limply waving off whatever thoughts were starting to buzz around Damien’s head. “I just mean it’s not a big deal, we’ve both seen our share of naked men before, you just become immune to it. I can walk through the gym locker room like a blind man. Even with all the eighty-eight-year-old dick swinging around. Don’t get me started on the sauna.” Vincent went on, in a rush to get his lips back on the glass. At one point he was talking while he slurped.  
The wine was fabulous.  
The longer he was inside Ciara’s apartment, the more impressed he became. Prime location, nice décor, naked, tall, strong, sexy, light skinned men and exquisite wine. What was next? His old job back?  
“Plus, how many times did you see me naked growing up?” Vincent asked, picturing both of them naked now.  
“Three. The time we snuck into Wet Island in the middle of the night.” Damien’s dark eyes shut tight when he laughed from deep within the muscled belly on him. Vincent didn’t even think it was that funny of a memory, but Damien’s squeezed tight eyes and wrinkly brows were contagious. Vincent had to stop sipping just so he didn’t choke on the laugh wiggling its way out of his throat.  
The goofy smile Damien always had growing up, had matured, while becoming that much goofier in the process. It didn’t exactly match Damien anymore. It looked almost cartoonish and out of place on the large boy’s face. Like a caricature made on one of those piers by those artist that Vincent never let draw him. He was too afraid they’d make him look awful and then guilt him into paying. Growing up, Damien had been lankier some years, chubbier other years and just plain weird looking other times. Vincent would have never guessed he’s evolve into the cover of a romance novel. Jet black hair that look kissed with the perfect amount of sheen, his butterscotch skin was free of all the crunch it had when they were younger and those broad shoulders finally made some sense now that they were attached to a bigger, more defined and proportionate frame.  
It wasn’t that Damien was ever ugly or hard on the eyes, his duckling phases just always seemed to last longer than everyone else, and Vincent became a highly judgmental gay before everyone else, so his standards were like, G5 level high.  
“My trunks slipped right off my ass.” Vincent said. “That’s what I get for having body dysmorphia at age fifteen. I swore up and down I was 300lbs.”  
“I still never found out what the hell that meant. Is it something like diarrhea?” Damien asked, pretending to enjoy the tiniest sip of the wine. “Yummy.”  
“Gimme the glass, you obviously hate wine, nobody ever describes that shit as Yummy.” Vincent chuckled, taking Damien’s glass away from him. There fingers grazed one another’s. Vincent lingered, feeling silly afterwards. There was a calm electricity that kept pinballing between them. It was jittery and pleasant but felt like it’d spiral into something larger at any given moment. Maybe once one of them decided to point it out.  
To Damien, it was nerves mixed with being embarrassed about the naked scene earlier.  
To Vincent, the current that kept flowing from himself to Damien was purely sexual. He hadn’t seen the boy in so long, nor had he even really thought of him, so there weren’t many awkward childhood memories fresh in Vincent’s head to stop him from picturing himself pressed under the big body he’d seen all off earlier. In the moment, he didn’t see Damien as his longtime friend, he saw a man he wanted to screw. It was going to take a while for all that childhood crap to catch up to Vincent.  
He licked his lips and gripped at his own slacks, wishing it was one of Damien’s bouncy, perky cheeks. He had to stop, he was getting way too hard. It wasn’t gentlemanlike. Another sip and he’d be slipping out his trunks all over again.  
“Thank you.” Damien said, glad to he didn’t have to act his way through the rest of the glass.  
“Just say you don’t want something next time.” Vincent shrugged. “Don’t be so passive.” They both paused. Vincent busy swishing his wine around…Damien was awkward, trying to shake off the little itch of bitterness that poked at him suddenly.  
Passive.  
Quiet.  
Agreeable.  
Those weren’t really things Damien knew how to control, but they were things Ciara, Vincent, his mother, father, sister and even Troyce had always loved to label him as. The uglier version of all of them was…weak.  
Damien was weak.  
It didn’t matter how he tried to explain himself, or what kind of reasoning he had for being the way he was, the bottom line was that people would always sum it up as being weak.  
A pushover who they loved to take advantage of, while simultaneously demanding that he be stronger and more vocal, knowing all the while that that’s what they wanted least of all. Nobody ever wants a pushover to suddenly stop being one, they just say they do so they don’t feel as awful about taking from them all the time.  
Back in the day, it was the Vincent and Troyce show. Whatever those two wanted, Ciara and Damien went along with, resentful as all hell, but also not brave enough to directly challenge it. There was always, always, always some sort of consequence or fallout to not doing what the dynamic, unfriendly duo wanted. Even if there wasn’t, Troyce and Vincent could make it seem that way.  
It always baffled Damien how certain kid’s mental capacity to be manipulative just kicked in faster than others. The way Vincent would flip and rearrange situations to make himself the victim, the martyr, the aggressor or the token black guy whenever he needed to was uncanny, and most times, scary. He was borderline sociopath levels back when they were growing up, needing little to no resources to wreck everyone’s day or mood.  
It was especially difficult because Vincent always seemed to have Damien slightly more wrapped around his manicured fingers. Ciara was his family and lived with him, so her immunity to the bullshit Vincent spewed was basically natural. Damien wasn’t so lucky.  
He wasn’t lucky when Vincent pressured him to come out of the closet either.  
They’d both fooled around with the same boy in middle school. Tyrone Washington.  
When Vincent found out, he persuaded Damien to come out first, telling him it would make him popular like someone on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. But in reality, it was just so Vincent could gauge people’s reactions and then design his own coming out to be that much better, which he did.  
Damien was teased and ostracized for months, before people just became used to him, bored with making him feel gross. Then Vincent came out, getting little to no backlash from peers and faculty because they used up all their hate on Damien. Vincent even dated Tyrone and went to the Spring Dance with him! They broke things off when Tyrone admitted he was wasn’t actually a Capricorn like Vincent had wanted him to be.  
Senior year was the only time things started to change for Damien and even Ciara.  
Ciara had always been Troyce’s ride or die friend, and at times, she was just as screwed over as Damien when it came to Troyce’s extreme mood swings and sometimes hurtful tantrums. Damien had vivid memories of Ciara stressing herself out because she literally could not decode or understand why Troyce was mad. Why Troyce was sad. Why Troyce was threatening to move away. Why Troyce would drop off the earth for days at a time.  
Or the one time he faked a suicide note and left it in Ciara’s binder just to see how she’d react when she found it. Of course, she freaked out and ran all the way to Troyce’s family home, only to find the boy alive with a pastrami sandwich in his hand… he laughed, saying she took too long, and he could have been dead already. Then he served brownies and he begged her to stay to watch Smallville with him. Ciara cried through the entire episode. Apologizing to him. That was the difference between Vincent and Troyce.  
Vincent knew how to make you think a certain way.  
Troyce could make you feel it.  
Those two were the reason the four of them were never able to be great like the kids on Boy Meets World or Saved by The Bell.  
Troyce and Vincent were always playing unspoken, drawn out, confusing games of mental chess with each other, using school, mutual friends, family and anything they could get their hands on as pawns. And often, the only people that really ended up losing the matches were Damien and Ciara.  
But in twelfth grade, everyone’s trajectory started to shift along with their priorities. Troyce and Vincent got very much into their studies, shutting the other two out, which Damien was covertly happy about. The more time they spent in their books and applying for scholarships and internships…the less time they had to make Damien and Ciara their emotional punching bags. That was the year he and Ciara flourished.  
Ciara had finally decided she wanted to take being a designer seriously (and/or start her own agency) and she’d had a steady relationship with Tyrone’s older brother, Denzel, it eventually fizzled out, but it was great for her while it lasted.  
Damien, on the other hand, was out and proud, doing meaningless little modeling jobs around the city for local magazines and websites, while becoming President of the school’s dance team that he’d been on for all four years. No, Vincent had never come to any of the showcases. He always said they didn’t have enough black women on the dance team so he couldn’t support. But when Ciara joined one year out of sheer boredom, his excuse was that they didn’t have enough Muslim representation. So he couldn’t support.  
It was bittersweet when Vincent suddenly told everyone he was moving to New York. With less than three weeks notice. He’d got accepted into a good university, and even secured a place to stay with his friend from the internet that nobody knew. His parents weren’t happy, but they’d always had an easier time raising Ciara anyway, and they typically got more out of it.  
Troyce barely flinched at the news. Unfortunately at that time, his parents had finalized their divorce and Troyce was already eighty percent detached from Bright Bay, since he knew he’d be going to live with his dad for some months in San Francisco.  
Not only that, by the time they were out of high school, he and Vincent weren’t even pretending to be friendly anymore. They openly spoke badly about one another and neither one attended the other’s birthday celebrations or acceptance letter parties. Not even Vincent “I Applied for College” party or “Got my First Rejection Letter” party. Vincent liked throwing parties.  
Damien remembered feeling really conflicted. As much as he’d miss Vincent, he couldn’t help feeling like he’d spent too long being one of the side characters in the boy’s life and this was his chance to finally focus on only himself for a while. His father and mother were working steadily and his younger sister, Carmen was already one of the top dogs going into her sophomore year of high school. Damien didn’t feel like he had to worry about anyone other than himself. It was refreshing.  
Still, he resented Vincent for never being great to all of them, then packing up and leaving without so much as a thank you, see you soon. Oh well. Over time, Damien had gotten over it.  
He thought.  
Hearing Vincent tell him not to be passive as if it wasn’t Vincent who painstakingly conditioned the boy to be that way was just as much laughable as it was upsetting. Oh well…Damien chose not to bring it up. He didn’t want to argue with Vincent. After all, Vincent was the one back in a town he despised. All because…well, Damien had no fucking clue why Vincent was back.  
“How’s your mom? She still teaching?” Vincent asked, leaned back in the stool with one arm off the back. He was looking fully relaxed and a bit low eyed now that he’d finished his own glass along with Damien’s. He couldn’t seem to keep his neck totally still, his head kept tilting from one side to the other or just kinda bobbing there like some giant had flicked it. Damien was amused. Vincent had never been able to hold his liquor as well as him.  
“My mom’s great.” Damien lied. “At Middle Road, yeah, she’s still teaching math. Geometry now though.” Damien had to think about it for a couple seconds. Joan Augustine was the Math Goddess of Middle Road Middle School. That’s literally what the kids called her. She was always switching from teaching Geometry, to Trigonometry, and sometimes both. Damien couldn’t keep up or even spell half the courses.  
“That damn middle school where Ciara yanked Ms. Aiko’s wig off.” Vincent sucked his teeth, recalling the day of the talent show. Ciara lost her mind when she came second to Aiko’s son who did some damn harp routine. Ciara had never even seen a harp.  
“Yeah, Aiko still works there. She wears weaves now.” Damien said, the corner of his mouth turning up as he drank in the sight of Vincent all loosened and giggly. It was weird but funny seeing the usually guarded and uptight boy not even able to control his burps or the expression on his face. “Your dad? Tate the Great.” Vincent’s head tilted far back, and Damien started to realize there was some sleepiness mixed in with the tipsiness.  
“My dad is doing good, just celebrated his fiftieth birthday. He asks about you a lot to be honest. He thinks you’re like, mayor of New York or something.”  
“He’s always been super nice to me. I’m nobody’s mayor. Regional manager at best.”  
“Carmen’s good too. She’s doing tennis in college like she always wanted.”  
“Carmen hates my ass.” Vincent blurted out. “Since she saw me and you kiss that one time, I don’t know why she never let it go.”  
Damien’s tickled smile didn’t fade, in got bigger actually.  
Vincent never talked about that kiss from 11th grade. He made Damien swear to keep it secret too. He always said it would be too controversial and divide the friend group, which just showed how out of touch Vincent was…the group was always divided. Sliced and diced right down the middle.  
And Ciara knew an hour after it happened because Troyce had watched it happen. Vincent was the only one who didn’t know how little it had mattered to them all. “I think she’s over it, she’s part of the Gay/Straight Alliance at college. She hosts this speed dating thing every other Thursday.”  
“We love straight cis women.” Vincent toasted the empty glass.  
“She wants me to sign-up for one so badly.”  
“You’re single?”  
“Yeah.” Damien said it like it was on the “weakness” side of an interview. “Always the side hoe, never the bride.”  
“Sign your ass up, go be some college boy’s midnight fantasy come true.”  
“Something about my kid sister setting me up on dates with her gay friends just seems weird.”  
“Wait, wait, speaking of weird.” Vincent sat up some, instantly hunching each time he tried to correct his posture. “What were you doing in Ciara’s shower anyway? Like, you live here?”  
“No, no, I just have a spare key. I work two jobs and sometimes I have to shower and change from one to the other. Ciara is nice enough to let me even crash here sometimes. My second job has me driving all over sometimes.”  
“Oh he workin workin. What do you do? Model?” Vincent leaned forward on the bar top, his arms crossed in front of him comfortably. He wasn’t trying to flirt, but every time he tried to stop himself, the words were already drip dropping out of his mouth.  
The kiss from so many years ago, the plump naked tan ass and the way Damien had thrown him onto that couch combined with Vincent not having sex in over a month, he was seriously considering taking this cute little reunion a whole different direction.  
“I teach dance at my mom’s school actually.” Damien lit up, clearly fulfilled by that job. He clasped his hands together like a coach explaining a play, eyes wide with excitement. “Right now they’re doing jazz routines. We have a competition soon actually.”  
“Dance team? What are they called?” Vincent chuckled. “Damien’s Angels?”  
“Close. We’re called The Stallions.” Damien tilted his head left to ride, clearly displeased with the name. “My co-captain picked it.”  
“That pay the bills?”  
“Yeah, it’s better than you’d think.” Damien lied again. He’d learned to lie very well over the years. The few times people stopped to actually ask how Damien was holding up, he’d never wanted to pass his burden over to them…which made him a good liar. He’d mastered the art of façade. Laughing to keep from crying. All that jazz.  
“What’s the other job? Pro-wrestling? Because you man-handled the hell out of me.” Vincent rubbed at his neck, pretending to be sore. “Might need a chiropractor.”  
“Uh…” Damen blushed, happy his cellphone ringing out loud distracted Vincent from that mysterious second job. However, the caller on the other end was arguably worse than Damien just answering the question. In all lowercase letters across the front of the phone.  
troyce.  
Damien put the phone back into his pocket swiftly enough that it looked innocently casual. “Enough about me.”  
“Never.”  
“You’ve been gone for so long, buddy. Like, it’s been radio silence on your end.”  
“Those are facts.” Vincent was almost positive there was a slither of resentment in that comment. “I just got really into my new life, I’m not gonna lie, I lost touch without everyone, don’t take it personal. I barely remember what my parents sound like.”  
“What brings you back? I was just as surprised to see you as you were to see me.”  
“Yeah, but I had clothes on.”  
They laughed, eyes awkwardly trying to find just the right amount of time to stay glued to the other.  
“Ciara didn’t tell anyone I was coming?”  
“Nope. That little rat.”  
“Pretty sure it’s racist to call her rat.”  
“Shut up.” Damien tossed the cork at Vincent. It slipped down his shirt. “My aim.” He did a chef’s kiss. “Impeccable.”  
“The NBA really missed out, huh?” Vincent rolled his eyes. “At least come dig it out.”  
“Very funny.” Damien said, blushingly as his phone sounded again. The ringtone sounded more destructive than before. If that was possible. Damien checked again. Vincent was just barely able to catch the caller.  
troyce.  
“I’m back for work.” Vincent wasn’t technically lying. He was back to Get work. Not to work.  
“Your work brought you all the way from New York back to Bright Bay?” Damien’s scrunched up, goofy expression was too cute. Vincent didn’t remember if he found the boy this endearing as kids, but for whatever reason now (wine and being horny) he thought Damien was just the sweetest thing.  
“Yeah, crazy, right? It’s like a business and pleasure trip combined into one.”  
“So you’re staying here?”  
“Yeah, with Ciara’s crazy ass.”  
“Good luck, she’s like, super boujie now.” Damien joked. “I’m not even allowed to snore when she’s here.”  
“I wish she would tell me how to sleep. She used to fall asleep with gum in her mouth, then wake up in hysterics.”  
“Used to? That was a week ago.”  
“See? Shit don’t change.” Vincent reached for the wine bottle hesitantly, not sure how much of a lush he wanted to be. He pulled back when he saw the time on Damien’s phone. It wasn’t even four in the afternoon. “Which iPhone you got?”  
“8plus.” Damien was clearing all the missed call notifications from his home screen. Vincent’s inner journalist couldn’t help but take a longer look at the name on all the calls.  
Troyce  
Troyce  
Troyce  
Troyce  
Troyce  
Troyce  
Troyce  
Well, at least they were still friends. Vincent couldn’t relate, nor did he want to. He’d never felt particularly close to Troyce. Well, in a way, they were very close. Since a lot of their interactions were based on figuring out what made the other tick and then coming back a week later to use it against them. But when it came to cute nicknames and secret handshakes…no, that had never been Vincent and Troyce.  
“You gonna call the boy back or…” Vincent played with the cork he’d fished from his shirt.  
“It’s nothing, he’ll be fine.”  
“Hm.” Vincent checked his own phone, surprised to see he’d totally missed a couple calls himself. One random number he didn’t recognize and another more recent one from Jose, an old contact from New York. Vincent wanted to pull away and call Jose back, but he also wanted to keep dropping hints that he wanted Damien to choke him.  
“How’s Troyce?” Vincent steered the conversation in a direction he didn’t want to, cussing himself for it. He didn’t really give much of a damn how Troyce was doing and he hoped Damien wasn’t about to spill the boy’s entire life story.  
Damien’s mouth parted. The boy looked like he’d been unplugged from the wall. All giddiness seemed to just dissipate from his shoulders and eyes like clouds leaving one another after a long storm.  
A few times, Vincent heard him starting to form a sentence or even just a single word, but then he’d swallow it back up. “He’s…we’re…”  
The door behind Damien started to unlock, stealing Vincent’s attention, but not Damien’s. The larger boy stayed still, wondering how to answer the question even after Vincent had clearly lost interest.  
Ciara used the toe of her heel to kick open her front door, a single brown paper bag of groceries in her arms as she kicked the door closed behind her. Vincent could see a bag of spinach peeking out from the very top. Along with a bottle of one of the clear alcohols. Knowing Ciara, it was probably Vodka. Some gross flavor like raspberry.  
“Mom’s home!” Damien had pulled himself out of the Troyce induced coma, throwing both his hands up in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown.  
“Hello, favorite cousin.” Vincent cooed at her from the other end of the bar. Fluttering his eyes.  
Ciara stayed calm, quiet and swift.  
She put her bag down, went back to lock her door and then took two big steps across the kitchen, standing between both of them, but looking only at her opened wine.  
“I’m only going to ask once…” She started, moving all her luscious, wavy blonde hair to one side of her head. She took a deep breath and placed her hands over her heart. Vincent smiled at her pretty black coffin shaped nails with small, tasteful gold details. Ciara’s sucked her teeth before going on. “Is. That. MY. Good. Wine.”  
“IS it?” Damien gasped, grabbing the bottle, reading it over as if it was going to say GOOD WINE in bold letters. “I really don’t know, I thought it was all the same.”  
“Oh, I wasn’t asking you, Damien, I know damn well you have no clue what wine even smells like.”  
“I do now.” He said, a joking jab to his voice. She just looked at him.  
“Sorry.”  
“Vincent.” She said, her finger finding him like some sort of snake in the weeds. “Open your paypal app right now because you definitely paying me back. That’s a ninety-dollar bottle of wine.”  
“No wonder it worked so fast.” Vincent said, impressed. He held his hands out for the bottle, mouthing a thank you when Damien handed it over.  
“I got five on it.” Damien peeped.  
“Stop trippin, Ciara. Remember that weekend you got your period at Uncle Alex’s house and I told him it was my blood all over his leather sofa. He really thought I was self-harming. I got sent home early.”  
“Bitch, you wanted to go home!”  
“I did not!”  
“You made me go fly fishing with him by myself! You went back home started a damn makeup blog. You don’t even wear makeup!”  
“I wanted to share my unique gay male perspective on the lack of diversity in the makeup world, for the last time! When are you going to let that go!!”  
“You brought it up, idiot!”  
“To prove that we are even!”  
Ciara held back whatever insult she was about to fling at Vincent’s face. Damien was glad, he ran a hand up Ciara’s back. “Ciara, you’re shaking. Sit down.”  
“I’m fine, Damien, I’ve had six cups of iced coffee today.”  
“Seven.” Vincent raised his hand. “And three glasses of wine.”  
“Two.” Damien corrected. “You had two.”  
“Really? Feels like more.”  
“Oh cousin…come here, let’s just hug it out.” Ciara said, slipping out of her burgundy sleeveless trench style jacket. She wore a tight, almost sexy long sleeve black turtle under the trench, with a simple but icy gold necklace that matched the wristwatch on her left arm. Paired with some skinny black jeans that stopped right at her ankle, letting the bright red heels finish the look off.  
She kicked her heels off and dropped a whole three inches. “We are even, you’re right.” She cheesed, inviting Vincent to come closer.  
“See? I knew you’d see it my way. I’m one of the most rational people I know.” Vincent stood, arms open for a hug. He wiggled his fingers, motioning for Ciara to come closer.  
She closed the gap between them with one huge stride. “I aint never letting that shit go!” She tackled him straight to the ground. “I had to eat trout all weekend, you jerk! On my period!”  
“Get off me, get off me, what kinda toxic feminism is this!” Vincent swatted and rolled, trying to fling his cousin off.  
“I was gonna pop that bottle for the finale of Project Runway, you are literally such a selfish prick, Vincent!”  
“Oh my God, are you watching this season?” Vincent froze underneath her, pieces of her rug stuck to the side of his face.  
“Yeah.” She panted.  
“What episode you on?”  
“Nine.”  
“Oh bitch me too.”  
They breathed heavily in unison, reaching out to fix one another’s hair and clothes.  
“I like your house.” Vincent cooed. “Please don’t murder me in it.”  
“He said please.” Damien peeped from behind them both.  
Ciara got off Vincent, a skeptical face as he took his time getting up. “Ah, my back…” He tried.  
“Oh shut the fuck up with that bullshit, Vincent, there’s nothing wrong with you. I’ve bitch slapped girls harder than I tackled your ass.”  
“I’ve seen it.” Damien agreed. “Imani Hayes senior year. She had it coming but still.”  
“Abuse is abuse. Gender doesn’t matter.” Vincent said, checking his own pulse.  
“Shut your dramatic ass up and put these groceries away.” Ciara flipped her locks, using little to no effort to tie then up in a neat pony afterwards. “Why I gotta come home and see my wine all drank up, and my rug tore up.”  
“You did that to your rug!” Vincent yelled.  
“All these years and you still can’t take accountability for shit.” She said, chewing loudly on a plum she’d pulled from her fridge. “It’s sad. Keep the bottle, I’m gonna use it for leftovers.”  
“Black people…will literally use anything for…leftovers…” Vincent pulled at his hair.  
“Shut up, you only half black, your opinion is invalid.”  
“Colorism in the black community has to stop. It’s cancelled, sweetie. Just like those edges.” Vincent went on, eyes narrowed at Ciara, who didn’t even flinch at him. Years and years ago, she would have ran to the restroom to change or cry.  
“Vincent, you really acting like I won’t pin you to this floor again. And how are you gonna call me colorist, then make fun of my hair? I’m a black woman, idiot.”  
“Wearing blonde hair.” He hissed. “Identity crisis, much?”  
“Expensive blonde hair, get it right.” Ciara shrugged. “It’s coming out next week, I’m bored with it.”  
Damien zipped around, putting the groceries where they went. “Is this mine?” He asked, a bottle of body wash in his hands.  
“Yeah.” She cut him a long, knowing glance. “Everything at the bottom is yours. Leave it here or take it with you, it’s whatever.”  
“Thank you.” Damien nodded fast. “I’ll cashapp you.”  
“Mm.” They both looked rushed to move on from that. “Vincent, fix my rug and wash these glasses, get your luggage out my living room. Like, damn.”  
“I can’t, my jetlag is like, horrible right now. I’m seeing double.”  
“That’s because you’re tipsy, bitch, now get up and clean ya mess.” She grabbed her shoes, flinching at her cousin as she made her way to her bedroom. “Talk shit when I leave the room and I’ll body slam you.”  
Damien grabbed his own Adidas bag from the living room floor, filling it with body wash and the other things Ciara had gotten him.  
Two jobs but had someone else buying him bread, body wash, an electric razor and pack of socks.  
“Home sweet home, right?” Damien said, slinging the bag over his shoulder.  
“The sweetest.” Vincent faked big, elastic grin. Damien’s phone rang again.  
troyce.  
“He really wants to talk to you.” Vincent said, hating to address it again…but doing it anyway.  
“It’s too late.” Damien said it louder than he wanted to.  
“What’s that mean?” Vincent asked.  
“Vincent, my guy, it’s been real.”  
“Aww, you’re leaving?” Vincent asked. “You just throw guys around and then rush off?”  
“Yeah, it’s totally my M.O.” He winked. “See you soon, I’m really glad you’re back for now. Let’s do lunch or a gym run.”  
“I’m more of a brunch guy.”  
“Brunch it is. Again, I’m glad you’re back.” That was a lie. The truth was, Damien didn’t know how the hell he felt about Vincent being back, and a big part of him didn’t care to figure it out yet. Things in his own life were either falling apart at the seams or just starting to be put back together, he didn’t have the mental capacity to ponder the real reason Vincent was back in Bright Bay, since he had a hunch it wasn’t just for work.  
With a big wave, Damien stepped out the front door, locking it with his own key less than a second afterwards.  
“Fuck.” Vincent groaned, once he knew for sure Damien was down the walkway and on the elevator. “He’s fine.”  
“Please go to church this Sunday, you slut.” Ciara said, leaning on the hallway wall, in nothing but an oversized Sailor Moon T-shirt and pair of black leggings that stopped right at her moisturized ankles.  
“Damien gonna be there? I know a couple places he can shove his cross.” Vincent said shamelessly, swiveling his ass in the stool.  
“You know what, Ciara started digging in her non-existent pockets.”  
“What are you looking for, bitch.” Vincent cackled. “Some sense, I hope.”  
“THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELLS YOU!” She started flicking and clicking her fake nails in his direction. “Take all this holy water, ya nasty ass!”  
“Oh, girl, throw me those fake lashes while you at it!” Vincent danced in the fake holy water, his laughs only getting harder, as he got happier.  
For the longest time, he hadn’t pictured himself ever being this happy in one moment ever again.  
And just as quickly as that euphoria had come, it began to bubble and pop away as Vincent remembered everything.  
The job he’d lost, the reputation he’d been wrongfully framed with, the people he was forced to forget and the ones who’d stabbed him in the back, front, side and heart. Rebuilding in Bright Bay after all that, it scared him. What if he just ended up never making it out again?  
They were both cackling seconds later when Ciara did another sloppy, ridiculous wrestling technique on him. On the floor, limbs tangled up, they just went on hooting, both a bit terrified of the other finding out just how much of them was a façade and how much was fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok ok this update took longer than I thought it would, but I have a good reason, I swear  
> I went to Chicago for a week because of work! A really good promotion actually, so I was very busy.  
> Now that I’m back and somewhat settled in, I’m just itching to get my ideas for this story out. I think the next few chapters are going to be sorta short, mostly just introducing key players. Which is a little irritating to me, because I just can’t wait to get into the meat of this story. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy this story and share it! 
> 
> THANK YOU.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this story and I hope you look forward to updates.  
> For now, I don't have a set schedule or day of when new chapters will be released.  
> However, I'm not a very spontaneous person, so expect a solid plan for that soon.  
> I guess it goes without saying now, but Rewrite is predominantly a drama/mystery with Gay characters leading the pack.  
> As I get more comfortable and even more educated, I look forward to adding in characters from all over the spectrum.  
> If you enjoy the story, let me know! And share it.  
> This is something I'd really like to channel a lot of my focus and effort into, so you're feedback would really help.  
> I'm also fairly new to this site so....bear with me.  
> AGAIN, THANK YOU  
> -RP.


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